


Reach

by pettiot



Series: Ownership!AU [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Drunkenness, Multi, Sex on Display, involuntary gangbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-25
Updated: 2008-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22430458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Young drunk nobility play strange games after dark.
Relationships: Ffamran/Vayne
Series: Ownership!AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614181
Kudos: 1





	Reach

Still a virgin, asked the dark haired man, as though mystified by such a thing.

Of course, you replied, of course: and you smirked and made some joke about waiting for royalty because you deserved only the best, and then you tried to make some quip about it being such a shame that the Solidors kept breeding males instead of females, and then you even let that lead you into some kind of a pun about breeding with males instead of females, and –

The party was developing in rather unusual ways. You were fairly sure you'd never seen your dining room table used in such a way before. Cid would hardly notice the scuff marks and the fluid was, well, just fluid.

You wouldn't have thought the Solidors attended such things; yet, here was Vayne.

He wasn't your usual type, if you had a type, because he wasn't very pretty. He had a nice smile. And the royalty thing, yes: that probably compensated for whatever his face had lacking in splendour.

The curve of his neck fit your hand, your lips found his earlobe, and his cheekbone; his collarbone, his eyelid. His lips. Like wine. Like air; you liked it. Very much.

Vayne told you that you smelled of spirits.

Spirited, you quipped, and, free-spirited, and you told him how you would not be bridled, how little restraint you had; this you said as your hands went to work, one on the ties of his overcoat, his pants beneath, the other tracing the shape of your cock against your too-tight pants, and his eyebrow rose as his cock begrudgingly did something similar under your ministrations.

Not here, you said, because everyone was around you and it was your father's library and you had some vague intention of taking Vayne up to your room, and ensuring that everyone would see you going past, with Vayne, with Vayne Solidor, and everyone would notice that, at least. You stood, and pulled him up, and he topped you by a head and turned your chin to face him, he claimed your lips again, again, and you whirled, you flew, you reached for a star and you caught one, and it led you astray: it burned.

The dining room ceiling was white and clean and the candelabra up there pierced your eyes with light, and from the sides and the fore and the aft of you, you could hear words and people and murmurs and laughter, and the sounds pierced you as well, and then that, that something, between your legs, thick and full and aching, gods, that burned, and hands held you down as you curled away, or tried to.

Vayne's lips on yours, his breath, cool; he looked down on you from above, upside down, he stood at the head of the table and held you down by your shoulders, and it struck you then, that for him to be there, standing, it couldn't be him on the table, couldn't be him mounting you, him splitting your arse, and you twisted, you kicked; he laughed like a crooked god, he smiled like an angel, and his kiss dragged you down, by gods, he breathed, but Bunansa sons are unbearably weak.

Everyone you knew was in this room.

Vayne leaned forward and his hair curled around your face, a veil that sought to drown you as you tried to see, see who, and laughter burned almost more than the cock that forced its way inside. The edge of the table caught a line of pain across your spine, slide, kick, almost escape; but hands turned you like a rotisserie, pinned you with your cock caught against the polished wood and your belly, and Vayne's face filled your vision, his lips on yours to catch your cry, to suck it from your lungs, it left your breathless, and your cock twitched, and you said, you said:

Oh, please.

And how Vayne laughed, almost lovingly, forgiving; it ate your soul, and you lunged and found his lips, you tried to devour him, and what was in you touched something so deep you wept, and you moaned into Vayne's mouth, you buried your face in his hair, you bit, and tried to, and caught only strands when you wanted his neck, and it hurt, and you wanted. You really wanted it. You thought.

Your neck hurt, why did your neck hurt? A hand in your hair, a cock in your mouth, so deep you recoiled and impaled yourself on the other. Spit bubbled from your lips, curled in great strands from the flesh in your mouth to splatter on the table, to slick where your hands strove for purchase, and you fell and you choked or you pushed and you hurt. Hands on your ankles, pulled apart, held down with weight, and who did you know who could have ever wanted you it would hurt, would throb, that you could want it so much that you wept and bucked and bled to have it, that you leaked from your every, from your all, that you cried out when whoever it was left you. That you nearly howled with relief when the weight returned.

Did Vayne ever matter? The orchestrator. You dreamed, your fantasy Vayne; his hair under your fingers in the morning. His smile over breakfast. His words over lunch. His shoulders over yours. His weight over you. His life, his purpose, his will in the place of yours. Such surrender; you had not thought yourself capable of such.

You pushed back your hair, and you sat up, and you found yourself a central display, and you asked:

Where's Vayne?

And they laughed. Dear, they laughed. A thousand fragile adolescent pieces. Vayne had left a long time ago, pet, Vayne had never touched you; perhaps Vayne hadn't even bothered to come.

A strand of dark hair caught on your teeth; in your mouth, the taste of it. Of all of it. Gone.


End file.
